New York Strip

by W. J. Costello

  Kelly looked calm. As if nothing had happened.

  “You okay?”

  She nodded.

  “Nice driving. You handled that situation well.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I wonder what happened to the brakes. Have they ever gone out like that before?”

  “Never.”

  “I guess it could have been worse. We could have been in heavy traffic. Or on icy blacktop. Or at the top of a big hill. Any of those situations would have been really bad.”

  “The brakes shouldn’t have gone out like that. I just recently brought this RV in for a tune-up. The mechanic would have noticed any problems with the brakes.”

  “So what do you think happened?”

  I looked away. I rubbed my chin. I thought about it.

  The RV shuddered when a big rig roared past. As if the hand of a giant were playing with a toy motor home.

  “Why are you frowning?”

  “Because I think I know why my brakes went out.”

  “Why?”

  I looked over at her.

  “Somebody tampered with them.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know who. But I can guess.”

  “Who do you suspect?”

  “The men in the Escalade.”

  She rolled her eyes.

  “Seriously?”

  “You bet.”

  “Why would they have done that?”

  “Good question. I don’t know why. Maybe just because I pissed them off.”

  “That seems like an extreme way to get revenge.”

  “Not compared to some of the things I saw in my years with the U.S. Marshals Service. Revenge motivates people to do all kind of things. You wouldn’t believe half the things I saw.”

  “Actually I would. Dad used to tell me stories about work.”

  “That tall passenger got out of the Escalade in a hurry. It looked like he had to pee. I saw him trotting toward the restroom building. But then I lost sight of him. He could have doubled back while I was arguing with the driver. He would have had an opportunity to tamper with the brakes.”

  “I wasn’t watching him either. I guess he could have done that. But I still don’t think so.”

  At least she agreed it was possible.

  Progress.

  CHAPTER 11

  “THE GPS SAYS we’re somewhere between nowhere and nowhere.”

  I turned it toward Kelly. She looked at the screen.

  “This isn’t the first time I’ve been in the middle of nowhere.”

  “Me neither,” I said.

  “Have you got a Triple-A membership?”

  “I do.”

  “Then I guess you should phone them.”

  “It’s Thanksgiving.”

  “So? They’re open for business. And we need a tow truck.”

  “It’d take too long for one to get here. On Thanksgiving? In the middle of nowhere? Good luck getting a tow truck before midnight.”

  “You don’t know that. You won’t know unless you phone them.”

  “According to the GPS a place called Earl’s Pump-n-Munch is only a mile from here. It’s the only gas station within a ten-mile radius. That’s probably where a tow truck would be sent from anyway.”

  “Earl’s Pump-n-Munch? Sounds like a porn movie.”

  “I know. But maybe we should give it a try.”

  “You mean drive there?”

  “Yep.”

  “With no brakes?”

  “Yep.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  “We’ll go real slow. The exit’s not far from here. We’ll drive on the shoulder until we get there. We’ll be off the busy highway in a matter of minutes. Then we’ll be on a slow road until we get to the gas station.”

  “Whatever. It’s your RV.”

  I took out my phone and punched in a number.

  “Earl’s Pump-n-Munch. This is Earl.”

  “Hi Earl. You open today?”

  “We sure are.”

  “My brakes went out. Can you repair brakes?”

  “Hell yes. I’m the best mechanic in Rising Falls.”

  The only one too.

  “Think you can repair my brakes today?”

  “What kind of vehicle you got?”

  “An Outlaw Class A toy hauler.”

  He whistled.

  “Sweet ride.”

  “Yeah. Until my brakes went out.”

  “I can fit you in today. One problem though.”

  “What.”

  “All my employees are off today. Nobody’s here to drive the tow truck.”

  “Except you.”

  “Somebody’s got to stay here.”

  “No problem. I’m not far. I can drive there.”

  “Long as you get here by noon.”

  “I can do that.”

  “My girlfriend wants me home on time for Thanksgiving dinner. She’s cooking up a storm. Turkey. Stuffing. Mashed potatoes. Gravy. Cranberry sauce. Pumpkin pie. The works. If I show up late for dinner, it’s the doghouse for me.”

  “Wouldn’t want that to happen.”

  “By noon. No later. Otherwise I can’t finish the job today.”

  It took us five minutes to get to the exit. The shoulder needed to be repaved. My RV bounced up and down like a lowrider for the whole five minutes. By the time we had turned off the highway I felt like a shaken can of soda.

  “Should be smooth sailing from here,” I told Kelly.

  “I hope so. That shoulder was as bumpy as a lap dance.”

  We headed west. Toward Lake Ontario. Toward Rising Falls.

  The flat road made driving easy. The snowy blacktop presented no problems. I drove no faster than ten mph.

  A few cars crossed the double lines and passed us. Not that I could blame them. I would have done the same thing if I had been driving behind a lumbering vehicle that moved at the speed of a drunken sloth.

  It was about eleven a.m. when we got to the sprawling metropolis of Rising Falls. The town made Mayberry look like New York City. One gas station. Three restaurants. A dozen stores. A sheriff’s office.

  “We might need a map to find our way around town.”

  “I’m lost already,” Kelly said.

  We chuckled.

  Good to maintain a sense of humor. Especially in stressful situations. Otherwise life can eat you up.

  A Thanksgiving Day parade marched down Main Street. A big crowd of spectators. Smiles. Laughter. Cheering.

  “Looks like a fun little town,” Kelly said.

  We pulled into Earl’s Pump-n-Munch.

  That would turn out to be a big mistake.

  CHAPTER 12

  ONE HOUR LATER.

  The Rising Falls Sheriff’s Office.

  “I need to speak to the sheriff,” I told the clerk at the desk.

  “He’s busy at the moment. Please have a seat. He’ll be with you shortly.”

  She pointed to a row of straight chairs. They stood by a window that faced Main Street. I sat down and watched the parade.

  Parades are all the same. If you have seen one, you have seen them all. People marching from here to there. People in costumes. People on floats. People with drums. That is pretty much it. Not much more to a parade.

  Parades. Entertainment? Not for me. I would rather read a book. Or travel somewhere. Or have a meaningful conversation with somebody.

  Missing-persons posters hung on the wall. Hundreds of them. The sight sent a chill through me.

  The first forty-eight hours are the most critical in a missing-persons investigation. That is when it is easiest for cops to track down leads and find potential suspects. It becomes much harder to find a missing person after the first forty-eight hours. Leads dry up. The case goes cold.

  Missing-persons cases receive low priority in most jurisdictions. Not without reason. Cops are already busy working homicides and robberies and rapes.

  According to the FBI’s National Crime Information Center there ar
e roughly ninety thousand people missing in America at any given time.

  Kelly was now among them.

  The clock was ticking.

  I sat staring at the missing-persons posters on the wall. My stomach churned. My head spun.

  “How can I help you?” a voice said from behind me.

  The sheriff. Finally.

  I stood up from my chair and put out my hand.

  “Rip Lane.”

  “Sheriff Cooper.”

  We shook hands.

  “I’d like to file a missing-persons report.”

  “Who’s missing?”

  I told him the story.

  “You two get into any kind of argument?”

  Kelly and I had argued briefly. But not about anything important. She had criticized me for my so-called aggressive behavior toward the driver of the Escalade.

  “We did get into a little argument. But that’s not why . . .”

  “Happens all the time. A couple argues. Wife takes off.”

  “She’s not my wife. Not my girlfriend either.”

  I explained the situation to him.

  He nodded while he listened.

  “I see,” he said when I had finished. “She’s the daughter of a friend of yours. You were just giving her a ride to Rochester.”

  “That’s right.”

  I wished I hadn’t argued with her. How stupid of me. I should have kept quiet.

  “Our procedure is to wait twenty-four hours before we conduct a missing-persons search. But you can go ahead and report the case now if you want. Would you like to do that?”

  “You bet.”

  He asked questions about Kelly. Standard questions:

  Basic information: Full name? Date of birth? Nicknames (if any)? Current and previous addresses? Current and previous employers?

  Physical description: Height? Weight? Age? Hair color? Eye color? Distinguishing marks?

  Style and color of clothing: Coat? Shirt? Pants? Shoes? Glasses? Jewelry?

  Habits: Cigarettes? Alcohol? Drugs?

  Last seen: Date? Time? Location?

  I answered the sheriff’s questions to the best of my ability. He wrote down my answers.

  Unfortunately I had no photo of Kelly. The sheriff needed one. But I didn’t want to phone her father to ask for one.

  No point in telling Blake his daughter was missing. Not yet anyway. Not until after the first forty-eight hours.

  The man had enough problems.

  “Sorry, Sheriff. Wish I had a photo of her. But I don’t.”

  “Can you get one?”

  “Maybe on Facebook. Can I use a computer?”

  Three minutes later I found a photo of Kelly on Facebook. I hit a button. The printer started working. I took the sheet of paper from the printer.

  “Here you go, Sheriff.”

  He studied it.

  “Good-looking woman.”

  “Yes. She is.”

  “Anything else you can tell me, Mr. Lane? Have you got any theories about what might have happened to Miss Wright?”

  “I’ve got two theories.”

  “What’s the first one?”

  “Somebody took her.”

  “That’s always a possibility in missing-persons cases. Have you got reason to suspect anybody in particular?”

  “I do.”

  I told him about the three men in the Escalade. How they had followed us all the way from the hospital in Watertown to the roadside rest area some twenty-five miles away. How the driver had confronted me. How my brakes had mysteriously gone out just minutes later.

  “You’re sure they followed you?”

  “Pretty sure. I saw a white Escalade at the hospital and then on the highway and then at the roadside rest area. Seems to be more than just a coincidence.”

  “And you think those men might have taken her?”

  “That’s one theory.”

  “Can you describe them for me?”

  “I can describe two of them. The third man never got out of the Escalade.”

  “Go ahead and describe them.”

  I did.

  “Anything else?” he said when I had finished.

  “I got their license-plate number.”

  “You wrote it down?”

  “It’s in here.” Pointing to my head. “My mental vault.”

  I recited the number.

  “I’ll run the plate.”

  “Good.”

  “What’s your second theory, Mr. Lane?”

  “Kelly committed suicide.”

  “Suicide?”

  “She seemed depressed this morning. Said she can’t deal with anything anymore. That life’s too hard.”

  “Anything else?”

  “She’s got a bandaged wrist.”

  “Did you ask her about that?”

  “I did.”

  “And?”

  “She said it was just an accident.”

  “Maybe it was.”

  “Maybe.”

  “She seeing a psychologist?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  He studied me.

  “What kind of work do you do?”

  “Used to work for the U.S. Marshals Service. I was a deputy U.S. marshal for twenty-five years. Now I’m retired. Kelly’s father used to work with me. He was a deputy U.S. marshal too.”

  Sheriff Cooper nodded approvingly.

  “Let me tell you how this is going to go, Mr. Lane.”

  “Okay.”

  “This office will handle the case first. We’ll devote as many resources as possible to find her. If we don’t find her within the next two weeks, we’ll hand off the case to the Missing Persons Squad. Then their detectives will continue the search.”

  “I can’t believe Kelly’s missing. I should have stayed with her the whole time. I shouldn’t have let her go off on her own.”

  “No point in beating yourself up. The majority of missing-persons cases are resolved within one or two days. Chances are good we’ll find her soon.”

  I hoped so.

  CHAPTER 13

  A PHONE RANG.

  The clerk at the desk answered it.

  “Rising Falls Sheriff’s Office.”

  She cupped the receiver.

  “It’s for you, Sheriff.”

  “Excuse me for a moment,” he said to me.

  “No problem.”

  I sat watching the parade while he took the call.

  My eyes stayed on the parade. They ignored the missing-persons posters. But my mind couldn’t ignore them. The mind has a mind of its own.

  Cheerleaders jiggled past the window. Smiling. Waving. Thirty pairs of legs moving in hypnotic unison.

  Men gawked. Men leered. Men ogled.

  Normally I would have too. But I had too much on my mind. Besides it wasn’t as if the cheerleaders wore skimpy outfits like they do in the summer.

  A man walked past the window. A beefy man. Black sweat suit. Dark stubble beard.

  I recognized him immediately.

  The driver of the Escalade.

  I shot up from my chair.

  “Hey you!” I shouted through the window.

  No response.

  My fist pounded on the window.

  People on the sidewalk turned and looked at me. But not the beefy man. He just continued walking.

  “Sheriff! It’s that man. The driver of the Escalade. He just walked past.”

  Sheriff Cooper looked up from his phone call. He cupped the receiver. His eyes squinted.

  “What?”

  “The man who took Kelly. He’s out there.” Pointing to the window. “He just went past.”

  The man was getting away. I had to do something. Fast. I couldn’t wait for the sheriff to get up to speed.

  I burst out the door and turned left and darted down the crowded street. My eyes scanning. Searching.

  Where is he?

  Where’d he go?

  Parade spectators choked the snowy streets. I weaved my way th
rough the throng. Bumping into people.

  “Hey watch where you’re going.”

  “Sorry.”

  Fists shook. Curses flew.

  I dashed. Leaping over objects. Avoiding collisions.

  Gaps in the crowd provided opportunities for me to sprint at full speed. I took advantage of those opportunities. But they were few and far between.

  At intersections I looked left and right. Hoping to glimpse the beefy man.

  My height helped. Six feet two. Tall enough to see over most of the crowd.

  At one point I tripped on something. A pothole maybe. My reflexes kicked in and saved me from falling.

  I finally glimpsed him when I turned a corner. But then he disappeared around another corner.

  I followed. Down the street. Around the corner. Through an alley. Out into another street.

  A truck skidded to a stop.

  Screeeeeech!

  And almost hit me.

  Only three feet away. Close call.

  Luck of the Irish. I am only half Irish. So I get lucky only half the time.

  Up ahead I saw the beefy man again.

  “Hey you!” I shouted.

  He turned. He saw me.

  No immediate response.

  Then a flicker of recognition in his eyes.

  He ran.

  I can run fast. So I wasn’t worried about him outrunning me. That wouldn’t be a problem.

  But the thick crowd would be. It would slow me down. And provide cover for him.

  The man ran into a store. A running store. A place called Gotta Run Running Store.

  I followed him into the store.

  He ran down an aisle.

  I ran after him. Past running shorts. Running shirts. Running shoes.

  I ran with perfect running form. The way my high-school track coach had taught me. Knees high. Long strides. Arms pumping.

  Customers applauded.

  The back door swung open and the beefy man exited.

  The chase continued outside.

  But not for long.

  He slowed down. Huffing and puffing.

  Then he stopped. He bent over and put his hands on his knees. His warm breath plumed white in the cold air.

  “Not much of a runner,” I said when I caught up to him. “Are you?”

  He just stared at my shoes.

  I stood waiting for him to catch his breath.

  We were in an alley. Somewhere between Main Street and Lake Ontario. Nobody else around.

  When he finally straightened up I stepped closer to him.